


Everyday Of Our Lives

by braille_upon_my_skin



Category: High School Musical (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 20:54:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6872956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/braille_upon_my_skin/pseuds/braille_upon_my_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles and mini fics that I've written that explore Troy and Ryan's relationship in various universes and stages of their lives. "Everyday of our lives, wanna find you there, wanna hold on tight." These are the words that Ryan Evans addressed to Troy Bolton in a song that Troy was never meant to hear. And, yet, here Troy Bolton and Ryan Evans are; together. Everyday of their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everyday Of Our Lives

—————-

**_A Huge Disappointment_ **

 

Mr. Bolton steers his crestfallen son into the kitchen, his arm around Troy’s shoulders. I catch a glimpse of him before his back is turned. His gray eyes are darkened, hard, and his muscles are rigid.

Despite Troy’s limber and sturdy frame, he’s easily dwarfed by his father. 

My heart is in my throat. Troy _needs_ me. This is my fault, _not his_ , and he needs my support-!

"Ryan?" Mrs. Bolton ventures. 

I turn to her, trying to compose myself to some degree, hoping that I don’t look as lost and shaken up as I feel. 

With my heart twisting, I imagine that Troy is even worse off. 

"You may want to sit down, honey."

Before I can process her words, and begin communicating the message to my rubbery legs, _it starts_. 

"Troy, ever since you were a kid, you’ve wanted to play basketball. I’ve had you out on the court, working your butt off just about everyday, because I  _know_ that you have potential.” Mr. Bolton’s voice is at a reasonable dynamic. It’s still much too loud for casual conversation, but we all know that this is not a casual conversation between father and son in any way. 

I feel my stomach churning, and I resist the urge to wring my hands, settling for gnawing on the inside of my lower lip, instead. 

"First, there was that musical. I admit that, at first, I was too hard on you about it, because I thought that it was distracting you from the sport we both love. But, then I realized how much you wanted to be on that stage, how  _good_ you were at it.” He pauses. I can imagine Coach Bolton searching for the right words. 

I can also clearly envision Troy beginning to quake with suppressed emotions, his head lowered, his fists clenching and unclenching. 

"Then," Mr. Bolton goes on, his voice a bit louder than before, "then, you blew off U of A- the only school that the two of us talked about- to go to Berkeley, in California- a school that I knew nothing about- because you wanted to be able to do theater _and_ be close to Gabriella. Troy, you  _sprung_ that on your mother and me. You-You didn’t talk to us about it, you just decided, out of the blue, that that’s what you were gonna do. And, we supported you… _But,_ things didn’t work out with Gabriella. So, you and Ryan got together.”

My heart leaps into my throat. Even though Coach Bolton has never shown any inclination toward homophobia, on the off-chance that this becomes some sort of tirade against Troy’s sexuality, I’m ready to leap to Troy’s defense in an instant.

Thankfully, I don’t have to. _Yet_. 

"You know that I’ve never had a problem with you and Ryan. He’s a good kid."

"I know, dad." Troy’s voice is low and tight. It’s almost difficult to hear him. "…I appreciate that."

"And, unlike with Gabriella, you actually told your mom and me that you were going to New York with Ryan. We accepted it, and gave you the go ahead, ‘cause we wanted you to be happy, and we knew that you and Ryan would look out for each other. We also figured you could use the world experience." He’s quiet for a moment. 

I can feel the tension growing, weighing down the air in the room. My skin prickles unpleasantly. Mr. Bolton is about to bring up something _big._  

"When the news got out, here, people started talking. They said stuff like, ‘Did you hear? That Bolton kid ran off with the Evans boy. His parents must be so ashamed’. Troy, women would come up to your mom at the supermarket, pushing carts full of kids, and either offer her their sympathy, or tell her that she’s a terrible mother."

"That’s _bullshit_ -!” Troy starts suddenly, his tone fierce. 

"Yeah?" Mr. Bolton scoffs. "The dads of the guys on the team would approach me at parent-teacher conferences, and ask me if I was teaching their sons how to be ‘faggots’ and ‘nancy boys’."

I flinch, my stomach churning, and I imagine Troy having a very similar reaction to the vile slurs.

"But," Mr. Bolton goes on, "I ignored their bullshit, ‘cause I  _knew_ that you were gonna make something of yourself. Gay, bisexual, whatever, you were gonna make them eat their words.” 

I’m going to be sick.

"When you told me that you were elected co-captain of your school’s basketball team your freshman year, and when you sent me a picture of that trophy you helped your team win… I was so _proud_ of you.” Mr. Bolton’s voice trembles a little, as if recalling the depth of that pride. 

For a moment, he and I are on the same page. Seeing Troy’s eyes sparkling, the smile on his face as he lead his teammates to victory, that night, it was almost overwhelming how beautiful it all was. How beautiful _Troy_ was, as he snapped a picture of that trophy, and texted it to his parents, then changed out of his uniform, and joined me to celebrate the success of my opening night on Broadway. 

In that moment, I believed that nothing could stop Troy. Nothing and no one could ever bring him down. 

And, then reality hit us harder than I ever could have imagined. 

The moment passes. I know what’s coming next, and it takes all of my willpower and resistance to not barge into the room and yell at Troy’s dad to shut up and leave Troy alone. Troy doesn’t need this. He doesn’t need to hear this. 

"You were gonna go professional, Troy. You were _good_ enough. You could have made it!” Mr. Bolton’s words are heavy with regret. “Now, all of your potential, all of those years we devoted to making you the best damn athlete in Albuquerque, have gone completely to waste!”

Mrs. Bolton jolts sharply behind me, but she doesn’t act. I turn to see her staring ahead, a look of dull misery on her face. 

Her husband is practically yelling, now. “Do you think any NBA recruiters are going to look at you when you’ve got that bum leg?!”

"I don’t care about that, dad!" Troy speaks up. "I never wanted to get into the NBA!"

"When you were a kid-!" Mr. Bolton starts forming his retort. 

"I’m twenty years old, dad!" Troy interjects, fury and multiple layers of hurt backing every single word. "I’m  _engaged_ … Don’t you think I know what I want?”

I envision them standing a few feet away from each other, Troy’s brilliant ocean blue eyes blazing with sadness and anger, his nostrils flaring. Both of their chests are heaving, but Jack Bolton is more outwardly composed than his son. 

"Charlie Danforth told me that NBA scouts are already looking at Chad."

That’s precisely the wrong thing to say. 

"That’s _great_ , dad.” 

I can’t just stand there like a useless lump, anymore. I move toward the entrance of the kitchen and peer in, waiting for a cue. 

Tremors wracking his voice, Troy says, “Maybe you’d prefer it if  _Chad_ was your son, instead.”

Immediately after they’re uttered, the words have an instant effect. Troy balks from the confrontation, tears misting his eyes.

Coach Bolton looks like he’s been struck. “Troy, I…” He swallows, his eyes teeming with desperation. “C-Come on, bud. You know that’s not what I meant.” 

Troy shakes his head and turns to me. His eyes close, tears glinting on his long black eyelashes. My heart plummets into the pit of my stomach. I hurry over to Troy and touch his arm, reminding him that I’m still here, and willing to assist him in any way that I can. 

"Let’s go, Ry." His voice is faint, hardly more than an unsteady whisper. He nods in the direction of the backdoor, and I know exactly where he wants to go. 

We head into the backyard. Troy climbs the big tree that contains his childhood sanctuary. I follow him slowly, mindful to keep an eye on his leg. Once we’re both standing safely on the deck of the treehouse, I follow his gaze to the kitchen window. 

Inside, we can see his parents talking, probably discussing how to handle the confrontation that has just played out, and how to administer damage control to what should have been left unsaid. 

Troy rests his head against a thick branch, a heavy sigh leaving him. This tree, and this childhood refuge are two of the only constants in his life. They won’t simply desert or emotionally assault him for a failure to live up to their expectations. 

They _couldn’t_ if they wanted to, but that’s beside the point. 

I take Troy’s hand into mine, interlacing our fingers and pressing my body against his. He needs to know that he has another constant. 

He looks to me, his eyes lighting with recognition. 

"You’re _more_ than your ability to dribble a ball and make baskets, you know,” I murmur just firmly enough for him to know that I mean every word. “No matter what anyone says, you’re _so much_ more than ‘East High’s former superstar’.” 

A faint smile tugs at his lips. “Thanks, Ry.”

I return the smile. “I’m only being honest.” Nudging him softly, I rest my head on his shoulder so he knows that I’m here.

His breath rate slows down, and his muscles relax. 

_Good,_ I tell myself. These are good signs. 

"You can be absolutely _anything_ you want to be,” I go on. “Troy, you’re charming, funny, intelligent, romantic, _handsome_ …”

He lets out a small laugh, blushing slightly. He’s too modest. He always has been. But, at least he’s not denying any of it. That’s definite progress. 

"You’re a _hell_ of a lot better than you give yourself credit for. Don’t ever limit yourself, or let other people limit you.”

Troy looks to me, his brows knitting a bit. “You know, sometimes I wish that my dad could understand me as easily as you do, babe.”

"Parents tend to struggle with understanding their kids, at times," I input gently. "Maybe it’s the generation gap."

"My dad and I have always been close, though. When I was a kid, and I had a problem, even though my mom was usually the one who fixed things, my dad was the first person I’d go to."

I nod sympathetically. 

"But, now that I’m older… I don’t know." A hefty sigh escapes Troy, moisture shining on those beautiful blue pools set in his sun-kissed golden face. "He-He just doesn’t _get_ it.”

"Hey." I press my hand softly to his cheek, and meet his eyes with mine. It’s as though my insides are tangled in a tight knot, but I ignore it. Troy needs me, and that comes first. "Your dad might not quite ‘get’, you, these days, because you’ve grown up. You’re not his little boy, anymore. You’re a beautiful, complex man, who has the whole world in front of him." A small, encouraging smile curls the ends of my lips. I want Troy to see my sincerity. I want him to believe in himself, and every _amazing_ thing that he’s capable of.

"And, maybe," I continue gently, "that’s somewhat scary for him, since you’re the only kid that he has." 

Troy’s expression is pensive as he mulls my words over. 

"We just need to give your dad some time to come to terms with the incredible person that you are now. Unfortunately, this hasn’t been all that easy for either of your parents." I add the latter bit in a low voice. It’s neither Troy, nor either of the senior Boltons’ fault that certain people in Albuquerque are _still_ so narrow-minded and mentally behind the times.  

"Yeah." Troy’s inflection indicates his disgust at the ignorant behavior that his dad recounted to him, earlier. 

"And, if your dad still doesn’t get it…" He looks back to me, and I resume, "at least you’ll be doing what makes _you_ happy. In the end, that’s-“

"All that matters," he finishes with me. I watch the characteristic glow of confidence illuminate his eyes, and I couldn’t stave off the unbridled joy that rises up in me if I tried.

Smiling, Troy wraps an arm around me and draws me into him. “You know,” he says thoughtfully, “the last time I climbed up here when I was upset, I looked in through that exact window, and saw my dad helping my mom with the dishes.” He stares toward the aforementioned window and inhales, wistfulness creeping into his voice. “I didn’t know how much more time I’d have with Gabriella- if we’d even stay together after high school.”

My brows knit, and I half nod in understanding. 

Troy goes on, “I-I remember just wanting some kind of stability.” His voice drops, and my heart wrenches. “Someone…” His eyes move from the window to me. “Someone that I could spend the rest of my life with.”

"You _have_ that someone,” I tell him, my voice shaky, but unwavering. 

"I know." He affirms. He leans in, and I meet him halfway, our lips connecting in a kiss. His arms wind around me, and my arms twine around his neck. 

 

 

 

**_Balloon_ **

 

——————

Wind rustles through the leaves and branches of the trees that fill the forest surrounding the park. The same breeze also sends locks of Troy Bolton’s shaggy brunette mop blowing in multiple directions. He attempts to angle his head in a manner that will diminish the wind’s ability to muss his hair, to little avail. Hands planted in the pockets of his jacket, he waits patiently, his right leg jolting a few times, while his fiance of a year and eight months, Ryan Evans, purchases two balloons from one of the vendors lining the walkways of Central Park. 

"Thank you!" Ryan chirps with his bright Ryan smile. He swivels on his heels and returns to Troy, holding tightly to the strings of a brilliant red, and a luminous blue balloon. 

Light glints off of the latex surfaces intensely enough for Troy to have to close his eyes to shield them.

"Here, Troy." Ryan offers the red balloon, his eyes full of intent. 

"Thank you," Troy says. He gives Ryan a grateful smile, then raises his head to scan the horizon. Beside him, he is aware of Ryan’s legs bouncing up and down as the wind picks up. Troy moves his free arm out of his pocket to the petite blond’s backside, and rubs gently, hoping that the action would help to warm Ryan. "This won’t take long, Ry."

Ryan’s eyes meet Troy’s. He nods, his face set with determination. 

Troy finally finds what he’s looking for, and he steers Ryan up a slight incline toward a wide open space away from the sea of trees. The chill to the air fires up the mostly dormant pain in his leg, and Troy can feel himself beginning to limp. A limp is nothing but wasted potential, according to his father and Chad. At the top of the incline, Troy stops. “Here’s good,” he says, even though it’s unnecessary. Ryan knows. 

The red balloon is jostled by the wind, the string quavering in Troy’s grasp. 

Ryan tilts his head up, his eyes, the color of the sky, taking in the minimal clouds that dot the expanse of blue. He looks to Troy. “Are you ready?”

Troy gazes at the red balloon. _Red_. A color that has held immeasurable significance to him for so much of his life. Significance to both him, and Ryan. Troy’s brows knit briefly before he steels himself. “I’m ready.” It’s the truth. 

A pale, cold hand is extended to him, and he envelopes it in his own. Together, they wait for another gust of wind to shake the string and its almost translucent attachment, and then, Troy lets go. 

 

 

 

 

**_Gabby_ **

 

———-

The familiar lyrics and music to, “All In”, by Lifehouse, worm their way into visions of Troy Bolton’s sun-kissed face and frolicking golden retriever puppies, as if someone switched on a musical accompaniment. It takes a moment for it to register in Ryan Evans’s mind that the song is not simply a product of his imagining, but is, in fact, playing in the waking world. Such a realization leads to one possibility; _Troy’s cell phone is ringing._

Ryan’s eyes flutter open to be greeted by heavy blackness. He can just discern the solid outline of Troy’s form on the bed beside him. Waiting for his vision to fully adjust is out of the question, however. The volume of the ringtone is bound to wake Troy up if some action isn’t taken.

Groggily, Ryan pulls himself upright. He looks toward the blinding brightness of the phone’s screen and has to squint against the intensity. Making sure to be careful, so as not to rouse Troy, Ryan reaches across his brunette fiance’s side of the bed, and takes hold of the cellular device. The thought of just who in the hell would be calling at this time of night, crosses his mind for an instant, only to be dismissed as he concentrates on murmuring, “Hello?” into the speaker.

"Ryan?"

Ryan’s heart feels like it’s just slammed full force into his breast bone. He hasn’t heard that voice in almost two years, but he’s positive that he’d _never_ forget it. His eyes are wide open, and the sleep-induced fog clouding his brain has completely dissipated. “Gabriella.” It’s a statement, and spoken a bit more curtly than he would have liked, but, there’s no sense in keeping up friendly pretenses with her, anymore. 

"Is Troy there?" No acknowledgement of the late hour. Even if she is still residing in California, she _has_ to be aware of the time zone difference. Gabriella is an, “Einsteinette”, after all. 

"He’s asleep," Ryan says, his voice low, but his tone is unmistakably firm.

The other end of the line is silent for a moment. Then, there’s a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan. “Oh. I see.”

It’s Ryan’s turn to sigh. “Is this call about something important?” He feels a twinge of guilt at the notion that she could be in financial straits, or in need of some other assistance. That twinge of guilt all but vanishes when he recalls all of the times that he’d seen Troy listlessly moping about, Troy’s ocean blue eyes darkened by grief, while the former athlete was still with Gabriella. 

Gabriella replies, “I heard about the wedding from Taylor. I wanted to know if I was invited.”

The urge to say, “no”, and be done with it, is difficult to resist. That would be the easy route. “Um,” Ryan chews at his lower lip. “I’m not sure that you attending would be a good idea.”

"I know things have changed, but I thought we were still friends." Imagining her with misty, widened brown eyes is all too effortless of a task. 

He’s sure that she’s used those doe-eyes to great effect.

Ryan can hear Troy’s easy, tranquil breathing. Troy is enveloped in sleep’s embrace, far away from the pain that shoots along his injured leg, and miles away from the rejection that the injury earned him from two of the most important people in his life. 

_"You know, Ry. I’m pretty sure that Gabriella would have left me as soon as she found out that I’d miss the entire season, thanks to my stupid leg."_

Ryan sits up straighter, adjusting the phone so that the speaker is closer to his mouth. He wants to ensure that none of his words are misheard. “Gabriella, “friends”, care about each other’s feelings. You’ve never exactly been a decent, “friend”, to Troy.” 

A sound like a scoff comes from the other end of the phone. 

"You said it yourself. "Things have changed." He can feel the barbed tongue that his family is known for possessing, overpowering his tactfulness. "If you want to come to our wedding, I won’t stop you. But, you  _aren’t_  my, “friend”, so please, don’t expect to be treated like it.”

Silence. A few seconds pass. “Goodbye, Ryan,” Gabriella says.

"Goodbye." 

She hangs up first. 

Ryan lets out an exasperated sigh, and falls back onto the bed. His eyes flutter closed, and he focuses on deep-breathing to lower his blood pressure. Strong arms wrap around him, and then Troy nuzzles into his neck. 

Pressing a kiss to the smooth flesh of Ryan’s throat, Troy whispers, “Thank you.”

 

 

 

 

**_Firewood_ **

**_————_ **

Ryan Evans blinks as he takes in his surroundings. Light-colored, sandy dirt, stretching on and on until it meets a field of grass, before him, bleachers behind him… He concludes that, by all appearances, he’s standing next to a baseball field. And, if memory serves him right, it’s evidently the very field where he played his final little league game when he was twelve years old. _That’s impossible!_ His brain exclaims, reeling from the shock. In front of Ryan is a chain link fence. He reaches out to touch the metal with a shaking hand, wanting to feel something solid against his skin to affirm that he isn’t hallucinating, or, more importantly, losing what remains of his sanity. 

No. The metal beneath his fingertips is cool, tangible, and _real_. Which can only mean that he’s _actually here_. His blood pounding in his temples, Ryan desperately wonders how this is possible. He scans the faces in the crowd off to the side of the ball diamond; proud mothers and fathers congratulating their little boys on their victory. Okay. Then, he spots a distinctly familiar broad-shouldered man with a leathery face, tanned skin, and a warm smile, and his heart leaps into his throat.

 ” _Dad_!” He yelps.

Vance Evans doesn’t hear him.

Heart racing with alarm, Ryan’s eyes move to the figure beside his father; a tiny, pale little boy whose baseball jersey seems to swallow him up. At the back of Ryan’s mind, something registers very faintly in regards to the boy’s identity. But, if Ryan’s vague inkling _is_ the case, then this entire scenario is even more insane than he’d first realized.

The boy’s sad blue eyes are fixed on something off to the side of Ryan’s father, and Ryan follows the boy’s gaze to a taller, older boy with dark brunette hair. 

Then, Ryan’s heart just about stops. The older boy is Dalton Reyes, the captain of Ryan’s former little league team. Dalton was short-tempered, strict, and difficult to impress, but he had excellent sportsmanship, was fun to be around, and he was always quick to compliment any player with a good, strong pitching arm. Ryan had worked tirelessly to become the best pitcher that he could be, in order to earn a smile from the older boy, to be praised by him, to receive a hearty clap on the back from Dalton’s strong hands… 

But, fifteen year old Dalton had a girlfriend. And, instead of congratulating Ryan on the pitch that won them the day, Dalton rushed right by him and over to pretty little Shayla Wilson. 

Which is where he is now. Shayla giggles, fawning over him, and Dalton removes his ball cap and leans into her, clearly impressed by whatever she’s saying in a way that he never was with Ryan. Ryan, the prancing pansy. The stammering weirdo. The socially inept  _freak_. 

The little boy at Vance Evans’s side ducks his head, his shoulders quaking with the tears that Ryan had used every ounce of his self-control to hold in. Swallowing, Ryan feels his stomach drop to his feet, and tears sting his own eyes. _No._  He can’t bear to relive this again. 

Ryan’s former coach calls over to the pair, and Vance stops to affectionately straighten out the brim of the boy- the younger Ryan-’s baseball cap, and give his tiny shoulder a proud squeeze, before making his way over to confer with the other man.

Ryan draws in a sharp breath. He grips a section of the fencing so tightly, his knuckles turn white, and digs his feet into the ground. _Something_ has _to be done._  Firmly biting back his own sadness, he heads out from behind the chain link fence to approach the small, neglected figure. Upon reaching the boy, he kneels down to put himself at eye-level. “Hey,” he says gently. 

Little Ryan looks up, his wide, confused sky-colored eyes brimming with tears. It’s like staring directly into a mirror that contains some sort of time window to transport Ryan back to eight years ago. Eight years ago; when he was a helplessly confused, utterly miserable wreck of budding hormones that responded humiliatingly to the same sex, and possessed a fervent desire to make his father proud of him, despite vastly preferring being onstage to chasing after foul balls. 

Speaking with a powerful conviction, Ryan draws his words directly from his heart, like the love of his life taught him to. “Listen, Ryan. You’re _going_ to figure things out. You’ll find yourself and forget all about Dalton Reyes and the little league team, because they’re not worth any of this heartache.”

Little Ryan lets out a wry laugh, shaking his head disbelievingly.

"Believe it or not, Dalton  _isn’t_ the best thing that’s ever happened to you,” Ryan continues, unfazed by his younger selves’s cynicism. “Now, or in the future. A few years down the line from here, you’ll meet someone so  _incredible_ , you’ll tell yourself that you don’t stand a chance with him.”

The young Ryan searches Ryan’s face intently, crestfallen at the ominousness of that statement, and Ryan feels his heart miss a beat at the brief recollection of the days spent pining. Countless days devoted to watching radiant ocean blue eyes framed by long black lashes, a heart-melting smile with perfect white teeth and full pink lips, and glowing sun-kissed skin stretched over beautifully sculpted muscles, and listening to an entrancing tenor-baritone pitched voice, from afar. He lays a soft, encouraging hand on the young boy’s shoulder. “But, I  _promise_ you,” he continues, taking the brim of the younger Ryan’s cap and tugging it slightly to the left, “you and this sweet, funny, brilliant, and all around _wonderful_ boy are going to make each other  ** _so_** happy. Happier than you ever could have imagined.” 

A sliver of hope shines in sky blue eyes, displacing the small boy’s sadness. Questions quirk his still yet to be neatly groomed eyebrows and the corners of his mouth, but he doesn’t ask any of them. 

He doesn’t get to. 

The sound of a whimper permeates the landscape. Ryan’s eyes open to a darkened room and the sensation of heat emanating from a  warm body laying beside him. Said warm body is raking in uneven breaths that shake the bed.

Another whimper enters Ryan’s ears. Quickly shaking off his disorientation, Ryan acts. “Troy,” he calls out softly. He reaches out blindly, groping for the all-too-familiar skin of his bedmate, and feels a tiny burst of triumph when his hand connects with the solid muscle of Troy Bolton’s strong upper arms. “Troy,” he calls again, nudging the brunette.

Troy jolts awake. Ryan can feel Troy’s chest shuddering as he calls into the darkness, “Ryan?!”, his voice wracked with anxiety. 

"I’m here, baby," Ryan assures him. He draws the virile male into his arms, and rubs Troy’s bare, defined backside soothingly. 

“‘m sorry I woke you, Ry.” Troy murmurs. “I just…!”

"It’s okay," Ryan whispers. It is. He’s always been a light sleeper, anyway, and when Troy needs him, he’ll _always_ come running, no matter what. “Another nightmare, huh?”

Troy Bolton, the former captain of their high school basketball team, and Ryan’s fiance, has a history of unhealthy relationships with his first girlfriend and his jock friends. These relationships left Troy with deep-rooted scars on his psyche, including the propensity to throw himself headfirst into potentially dangerous situations, driven by a need to always be “a hero”, codependency, and a crippling terror of being a disappointment. Add all of these components together, and it’s no small wonder that Troy has frequently roused Ryan while in the throes of a fitful sleep. 

"Yeah," Troy affirms. "I’m pretty sure." 

Ryan’s twin sister, Sharpay, has taken him aside at least twice to question why he bothers. “Yeah, Troy’s _hot_ , and I’m sure that the sex is just fantastic! But, he’s _broken_ , Ry. He’s toting more baggage than I do on any of my vacations.” 

Both times, Ryan scoffed openly and rolled his eyes while his heart twisted with sympathy for every self-loathing thought that has ever crossed Troy’s mind as result of people’s abhorrent mistreatment of him. 

Troy lets out a self-deprecating sigh. When he speaks, his voice is tight with anger directed at himself. “This has to be so  _frustrating_ for you to deal with, Ryan.” 

"It can be, at times. But, the nightmares… none of that’s _your_ fault, okay?” Ryan places a soft kiss on Troy’s head and hugs him tightly. Troy _was_ broken, but they’ve made progress. They’re still making progress. Three years prior, Troy stood on the stage in East High’s auditorium, uncertain as to what he wanted out of life.

Now, he _knows_. 

The seventeen year-old who spent over a week in an almost catatonic state of melancholia while his self-centered, apathetic girlfriend strung him along, is gone.

Just like the sad little blond boy who went home and threw his mitt into the trash before hiding in his room where no one could see him, and crying his heart out, because he wasn’t good enough for Dalton, or his dad. And, the depressed fifteen year-old blond boy who watched as his sister got dolled up to go on dates with handsome boys, while he spent his Friday nights in an empty house, watching _The Wizard Of Oz_ and absent-mindedly stirring a self-pitying bowl of ice cream, unable to convince himself to actually eat it. None of the boys ever noticed him, and he probably wouldn’t even know how to talk to them, if they did. 

"Besides," Ryan goes on, his heart full of love, love, love for the man in his arms, "you’ve made a lonely little boy happier than he ever could have imagined." He feels Troy smile against the hollow of his throat, and Troy’s breath rate easing into a steady legato rhythm beneath his palm. 

"Same to you," Troy whispers. 

 

 

 

 

**_Kindergarten_ **

 

 

Ryan sniffled sadly, curling into himself with his arms wrapped around his knees. No one in the class ever seemed to like his Show and Tell presentations. They all preferred Sharpay’s. Of course they did. Sharpay was the better talker, and she was prettier, and daddy liked her best. 

"Hey, Ryan!" 

No one ever talked to Ryan. Shocked, Ryan looked up to find Troy Bolton, the brunette boy with bright blue eyes and tanned skin, who Sharpay referred to as “cute”, hunching over in front of him. 

"H-Hi, Troy," Ryan stammered. Troy was close enough that Ryan could just make out freckles dotting the bridge of the other boy’s nose. 

Troy smiled. “I really liked the hat you brought in for Show and Tell, today.” 

Troy didn’t seem like a liar, and as far as Ryan knew, Troy wasn’t an actor, either. So that meant that he was telling the truth, right? “Really?” Ryan asked shyly. 

"Really." Troy Bolton was talking to _Ryan_ , and smiling at  _Ryan_. **_Not Sharpay_**.

Ryan felt butterflies in his tummy, and a small smile broke out on his face. 

 

 

 

**_Space/Sci-fi_ **

 

 

 

"Troy! Run!" Ryan yelled, desperation stealing into his inflection as the invading forces closed in on him and his fleeing partner. He turned back to open fire. 

 

Somewhere not that far behind him, a shot from a hand-held laser ricocheted off of the walls of the ship, severing a wire that Troy was certain pertained to something vital. Ryan expertly dodged the mini explosion that resulted, but he lost his gun in the process. 

Sparks flew out, illuminating the passage for a few seconds. That was all the time that Troy needed to act on impulse. As the creature began advancing on the weaponless blond, rearing up on its six hind legs, Troy jumped between Ryan and the invader, gun poised and ready to fire at the midsection of the eight-foot tall monstrosity. 

 

 

 

 

**_Twisted Fairytale_ **

 

The mirror fell to the floor with a clatter. The dark-haired figure inside of the glass let out a soundless wail as the realization of her imprisonment crashed down on her. 

Chest heaving, the fair prince approached the battered knight, who began slowly righting himself. “Sir Troy?” Prince Ryan called softly. 

Sir Troy’s side-swept brunette hair had fallen into his face. As he raised his head, his ocean blue eyes were revealed. They lit up with recognition upon landing on the prince. “Your majesty?” He gasped, his voice cracking with relief. A weary smile tugged at his lips. “You-You have broken the sorceress’s enchantment!” 

The prince with hair of gold nodded. “I have. I _had_ to. For your sake.” Dropping to his knees, he swept the knight into his arms, vowing to never let harm come to him, again. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**_A lot of game_ **

———

"Chad and the guys weren’t kidding, Ry. You’re  _really_  good.” Troy recognizes that saying so is a bit unnecessary. After all, Ryan had informed Troy that he’d been involved in a team that went to the Little League World Series in the blond’s former home state of New Port, Rhode Island. Shifting into position, Troy scrapes the head of the bat against the ground around home plate. 

 

"Yeah, well…" Ryan trails off, shrugging off the compliment. He looks to Troy for a signal that the brunette is ready.

 

Troy detects pink coloring the petite boy’s fair face. “You could have gone pretty far with this,” He ventures cautiously. Ryan gives a jerk that is noticeable despite the distance from home plate to the pitcher’s mound. Troy quickly amends, “But, hey, it just wasn’t your thing, you know?” 

 

"Right." Ryan nods. 

 

Troy raises the bat, crouching in anticipation. As Ryan prepares his pitch, however, Troy adds, “You’re more comfortable on stage.” As far as Troy is concerned, that’s pretty obvious to everyone. Ryan is a natural performer through and through. He was born to shine in the radiant glow of a spotlight, to bask in every standing ovation that he receives, and Troy wouldn’t have the blond any other way. 

 

But, really, who else would understand the pressure and opposition that all too often comes down on a young man when he leaves the world of sports and locker rooms behind to don costumes and make-up while prancing about on a stage, better than Troy Bolton, himself? 

 

He pauses for a moment, then grins mischievously. “Although, I have to say, Ry, your butt would look completely  _spectacular_ in the pants of a baseball uniform.” 

 

Ryan cracks a smile, unable to stop himself from giggling. “Really, now?” He inquires, a smirk tugging up the ends of his candied lips. He wiggles his hips playfully, earning a waggle of the eyebrows from Troy.

 

"Now, why would I lie about something like that?" Troy at last gives the signal that Ryan was looking for; his index finger tapping the handle of the bat. 

 

Ryan winds his arm and sends a wicked fast ball in Troy’s direction with expert precision. Troy easily sends the ball sailing off to be forgotten, and rounds the bases at a languid pace. He’s not surprised in the least to find Ryan there waiting for him at home plate. Only, instead of being instantly struck out, Troy is able to wrap an arm around Ryan’s waist. “Am I safe?” He asks.

 

"You could never strike out with me," Ryan says sweetly. His inflection, however, is just sultry enough to send a tingle coursing through Troy’s body. Ryan leans up on his toes and presses his lips to the taller boy’s. 

 

Troy smiles dopily into the kiss. Because Ryan just has that effect on him.

 

The next thing Troy knows, his back is against the chain link fence surrounding the ball diamond, Ryan is in his lap, and his mouth is filled with the taste of the too-sweet strawberry flavor of Ryan’s lipgloss. 

 

"You know," Ryan breathes out, his palm cradling Troy’s face while his talented fingers stroke through Troy’s hair. "Before we played, Chad sort of mockingly asked me if I had any game."

 

_That’s not cool._ "What did you say?" Troy slides one of his hands down to rest comfortably right above Ryan’s shapely posterior. His other hand gently squeezes the back of Ryan’s neck, encouraging the petite blond to continue. He has some choice words to say to his best friend for taking up anything remotely similar to a mocking tone with Ryan. Who cares if it happened years ago? Troy never condoned bullying, even in high school. 

 

"I told him I had a ‘little’, Ryan says.

 

Troy shakes his head, affectionate smile on his face. “Understatement of the century, babe.”

 

Ryan smiles shyly, ducking his head. “I guess ‘a lot’ would have been more accurate?” 

 

Troy tilts his head to peer into Ryan’s eyes as he confirms, “You can bet on it.” When he recaptures Ryan’s mouth, it’s  _Ryan_ who is smiling, this time. Troy can feel it. The happiness that fills Troy from head to foot is enough to keep him from noticing that the baseball cap that he wore, just for this occasion, is slipping off of his head…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**_Auld Lang Syne_ **

 

 

 

 

Call it bitter irony. Call it Fate. Whatever it is, Troy Bolton is far from singing its praises, at the moment. He stands in the crowded rec room of a ski resort in Colorado on New Year's Eve. The exact same resort that, exactly four years prior, he met the girl that would become his first girlfriend at a party, when he got roped into singing karaoke.

 

Gabriella Montez.

 

Troy surveys his fellow party-goers from his current position, leaning against the back wall. He holds an untouched glass of champagne in his hand, and hopes that the tremors wracking his legs aren't noticeable.

 

Gabriella was his girlfriend of a year and just shy of six months, in high school. She was the girl who helped him to discover his passion for singing and performing. He ventured outside of his clique among the basketball team at East High, onto the stage, because of her. To say that she "changed", him would be a fairly massive understatement. She was also the girl who gradually warped his self-image and devastated his self-esteem. To the extent that he still can't quite wrap his mind around the fact that someone like Ryan Evans, his beautiful, smart, funny, and extremely talented fiance, could actually love him.

 

Even though Ryan voiced his ecstatic "Yes!", before Troy had completely finished getting the words of his proposal out. Even though Ryan never left his side, even when he sustained an injury that threw his promising career in basketball right out the window.

 

Troy's heart skips a beat as he zeroes in an a svelte figure with curvy hips. Swerving and dodging around bodies, there's Ryan- swiftly making his way through the crowd to Troy with his own half-full glass of sparkling champagne.

 

The brunette feels some of the weight and bitterness lift right off of his chest at the sight of the blond.

 

"This place is packed, huh?" Ryan asks, touching Troy's shoulder as he takes up a position beside him. The effect of his touch is immediate. The grinding tension already begins to ease off of Troy's stomach.

 

"You could say that," Troy replies. He takes in the still uncomfortably familiar scenery; the brightly lit screens filled with text, the microphones that two unwilling participants stand at on the stage, the foosball tables, the ridiculous party hats. He almost feels like he's sixteen years-old, again, utterly oblivious to how his life is mere moments away from being altered in ways that he never could have imagined.

 

"Do you wanna go somewhere more quiet?" Ryan raises his voice, slightly, to be heard over the music, the singing, and the chatter carrying on around them. "I think the lobby is pretty empty, right about now." His blue eyes search Troy's face intently, looking for tale-tell signs of onsetting panic, or a desperate need to escape the air that is ever tightening with so many people compacted together in one space. Big, overly crowded parties aren't exactly Ryan's scene, either. Especially when they're so crowded that he isn't even able to dance.

 

Honestly, Troy would love the opportunity to escort Ryan onto the floor. He'd get lost in the music, in Ryan's gentle, guiding touches, in the spellbinding movements of Ryan's hips, and forget all about the sense of foreboding that is causing his stomach to churn.

 

When Troy doesn't answer, Ryan follows his fiance's line of sight to the microphones on the stage. Sympathy fills his soft features. "Hey. No one is going to call you up there to sing," he promises. He moves to cradle Troy's face with his palm and strokes Troy's cheek reassuringly with his thumb."We'll leave before that happens."

 

A smile tugs at Troy's lips. "Thanks, Ry," he murmurs, placing his hand over Ryan's and giving the pale, slender appendage a squeeze. "I know. It's just…" The concern in Ryan's eyes compels him to go on. "D'you ever wish you could go back in time, and make it so something never happened?"

 

"Of course," Ryan says softly, and Troy regrets asking the question. Life left the younger, male half of the Evans twins with his own battle scars, as it does with everyone.

 

"I'm sorry. That was… It was a stupid question," Troy berates himself. He pulls away from Ryan's touch and frustratedly swigs down a third of the champagne in his glass.

 

"No. No, it wasn't stupid," Ryan assures him. He glances back at the stage, where the two performers are just finishing their duet, then turns his full attention back to Troy, his brows knitting with a mixture of anxiousness and curiosity. "What do you wish you could change, Troy?"

 

Troy swallows and half-shrugs. "I don't know… I…" He tears his eyes away from the floor and looks at Ryan, who he knows isn't going to harshly judge him for what he's about to say. "Sometimes, I wish I could change what happened, that night, so I never would have met Gabriella at that party," he admits, his voice unsteady.

 

Ryan absorbs that information, then goes quiet, for a second. He bashfully shuffles his feet, and the corner of his mouth quirks.

 

"I guess that kind of makes me sound like an asshole, though," Troy murmurs. "I mean, if Gabriella never would've transferred to East High, so many things never would have-"

 

"I wished for the same thing. Too many times."

 

Troy blinks, unable to hide his surprise.

 

"At first, it was because I was jealous," Ryan admits, his inflection tinged with bitterness, self-deprecation, and regret. "Then… it was because I hated how she treated you. How she made you feel like a worthless idiot who was completely disposable to her."

 

"Ry…" Troy starts, taking a step back into the smaller male.

 

Ryan blinks, his eyes misty. He's too caught up in his words, in chastising himself, to notice Troy approaching. "So, if wishing to be able to turn back time and change that makes you 'kind of' an asshole, then wishing for it as many times as I did makes me a giant asshole."

 

"Well…" With another step, Troy closes the gap between them. Ryan looks up, his widened eyes searching his fiancé's. "In that case, you're my giant asshole, and we can both be assholes together," Troy finishes in a low voice. He presses his nose to Ryan's, relief coursing through him as the brilliant, megawatt smile that he adores slowly breaks out on Ryan's face. He offers Ryan his arm, which Ryan gladly takes, and they begin to exit the rec room for a quieter, less crowded area of the resort.

 

On their way out, Troy hears the MC calling out the next two unfortunate partygoers to be reluctantly partnered up for a round of karaoke. He's almost giddy enough to let out a cheer that he's been overlooked, and Ryan shoots him a smile, as if to say, "See? What did I tell you?"

 

 

 

********

 

 

 

Snow lightly pelts Troy's jacket, despite the arm that he has raised protectively over his face. Laughing, he quickly packs together another snowball and flings it at Ryan, who, clutching at his hat to keep it on his head, ducks out of the way, just in time. It's not as though Troy meant to hit Ryan, after all. Aside from some people riding the ski lifts overhead, they're the only people outside. The noise of the parties occurring inside is muffled by the walls of the resort and the winter air. It almost creates an illusion that Troy and Ryan are the only two people in the world. Troy sees his breath form a cloud in front of him as he makes his way over to Ryan and scoops the petite male up.

 

"Distracting your opponent and crossing enemy lines. That's two strikes, Bolton," Ryan informs him. The smile on his face and barely contained laughter in his voice completely negate his statement, however.

 

"Uh-huh, and here's a third." Troy lets his legs buckle and purposely sends himself toppling into the freshly fallen snow, bringing Ryan down with him. Ryan lets out a gasp and clings tightly to the taller male the instant before they hit the snow and it audibly crunches under their weight.

 

Troy chuckles softly and Ryan joins in, flopping down beside him. "It almost feels like we're in a Hallmark card," Troy says.

 

"Or a snow globe," Ryan offers, a hint of wonder to his voice.

 

"I was thinking, Ryan…"

 

"Hm?"

 

"The year and a half that Gabriella and I were together…" Troy pauses and Ryan looks to him, encouraging him to continue. "It seems so small compared to the rest of my life that… That I'm going to share with you." Troy smiles, staring into Ryan's eyes so the blond actor will know that he means it.

 

Affected by Troy's words, his eyes shining, Ryan can only manage a quiet, tremulous, "Oh, Troy… You know it." They link hands, their fingers intertwining, and help each other stand upright. By the time the traditional countdown to midnight has begun, they're already kissing, Ryan's arms wrapped about Troy's neck, Troy's hands resting on Ryan's hips. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**_Wed Me_ **

 

——————-

Ryan clinks his half-full champagne glass against his sister’s. As he raises the glass toward his lips, however, he hesitates. A bout of nausea had settled on his stomach a few hours ago, so he isn’t particularly in the mood for any aspect of hard-partying.

His wedding to the love of his life is in two days. Yes, this is supposed to be his bachelor party, his, “last night as a free man”, but in all honestly, this is just a formality. 

And, one that Ryan feels is sort of unnecessary, at that.

He doesn’t want to have a one night stand with a stripper, or go out to a club to have men grind against him while deafeningly loud music batters his ear drums until his skull throbs. Part of him just wants to send Sharpay, Kelsi, Martha, and Taylor home after apologizing for wasting their time, perhaps take a dose of Peptobismal, and then curl up in Troy’s arms and go to sleep. 

However, Troy is also away at his own bachelor party, no doubt being encouraged to, “loosen up”, by his friends, Chad, Zeke, and Jason, and Sharpay’s beau, Peyton, who wound up tagging along at Sharpay’s request. The thought that Troy, at least, might be out there living it up, alleviates a bit of the nausea.

Sharpay, having caught onto her brother’s stalling, lowers her own glass from her mouth. “Oh, come on, Ryan! One sip of champagne won’t kill you!” She insists, giving a little roll of her eyes.

Ryan takes in the attentive faces of the girls clustered around him. Taylor is shaking her head in disapproval at Sharpay. Kelsi looks at Ryan, her brows furrowed with mild concern, and Martha rests her cheek in her hand, letting out a sigh.

The worry nags at Ryan that Troy’s friends are pressuring Troy a little too much. As they’ve been known to do, in the past. Troy was even more unwilling to participate in this formality than Ryan. If it wasn’t for the fact that Troy’s best friend, Chad, had finally acquired his own car, and was eager to show it off, Troy most likely wouldn’t have left the apartment. 

"Sharpay, can’t you tell that your brother _clearly_ isn’t feeling well?” An exasperated Taylor gestures to Ryan. 

"Oh, I think I can tell when something is wrong with my brother, thank you," Sharpay replies curtly. Her brown eyes gleam in that way that causes Ryan’s blood to run cold. 

"Ryan, _are_ you okay?” Kelsi inquires softly. 

Four sets of eyes are on Ryan, Sharpay’s eyes, in particular, are doing their best to stare directly into his soul. Ryan feels his insides tense up, and chastises himself for causing the girls to worry. _The show_ must _go on_ , he advises himself. 

"I’m fine," he reports, smiling for good measure. 

Sharpay’s brow elevates, her eyes narrowing skeptically. “Is this about Troy?”

"No, Shar. I completely trust Troy." He does. He trusts Troy wholeheartedly. During their years of touring together, Troy has been provided with many an opportunity from both men and women to cheat on Ryan, if he so desired. Never once has Troy even attempted to act on that multitude of opportunities. 

It’s not about that, at all. 

"I’m fairly confident that Troy _wouldn’t_ cheat on you,” Taylor assures Ryan, and, from her inflection, Ryan ascertains that she’s also assuring herself. 

He knows that she’s just trying to help, but that doesn’t stop his smile from nearly falling into a frown. 

"He wouldn’t!" Kelsi argues. "It’s _Troy_ , we’re talking about.”

"Kelsi’s right," Martha inputs. 

"Damn straight Troy Bolton wouldn’t cheat on my brother! Especially if he values his manhood," Sharpay shifts to engage in the discussion, and some of the champagne sloshes out of her glass and onto the floor.

Ryan opens his mouth, to tell the girls to calm down, to reassure them that he’s fine, really, that maybe someone should get some paper towels to clean that up, that his anxiety has nothing to do with the idea that Troy might have someone else on his lap right this very instant, their hips rocking against his…

Before he can construct the proper phrasing to communicate whichever idea, the door bursts open. All of the heads in the room whip around, the argument coming to a complete halt.

Troy stands at the door, his blue eyes stretched wide and his chest heaving. 

Ryan immediately jumps to his feet and sets his glass down on the nearby table. His heart hammers against his breastbone at the sight of the brunette’s highly visible distress. “Troy?” He takes a step forward. 

Troy rushes to his fiance, sweeping Ryan into a tight embrace. “Ryan, I’m _so_ sorry. I-I shouldn’t have left..!” His voice quavers. Only the faintest trace of alcohol is on his breath.

Utterly bewildered, Ryan wraps his arms around his partner, rubbing Troy’s back soothingly. He can feel Troy’s heart pounding as the contact causes their chests to touch.  _What…?! What did they…?_ After a second or two,he takes a step back, peering into Troy’s eyes."Troy, honey, what’s wrong?"

Troy meets Ryan’s eyes and takes a deep breath.

Ryan gives the slightest of nods, encouraging him. _That’s right. Breathe, Troy. In. Out._

Taylor and Martha, and Sharpay and Kelsi all trade looks of confusion and shock. 

Gradually, Troy takes in his surroundings, and begins to regain his composure. “I… I couldn’t do it, Ryan.”

Ryan blinks, a lump rising in his throat. Of course not. Of course Troy couldn’t bring himself to. Ryan’s stomach churns as he imagines the humiliation and terror that Troy must have felt when the stripper, or whoever Chad had hired, was brought out for Troy’s, “entertainment”.

He never should have let those guys take Troy out of the apartment.

One by one, Chad, Zeke, Jason, and Peyton enter the apartment. Chad’s eyes search the room until they rest on Troy. He instantly freezes, the color draining from his face. 

Taylor gets to her feet, shooting Chad a stern stare. “Chad Danforth, just what did you guys _do_?”

Chad opens his mouth, stammering out, “Nothing! W-We didn’t do anything!”

Jason looks to Zeke, his brown eyes filled with confusion. Zeke returns the look. When the pair catch a glimpse of Troy, their eyes fall guiltily to their feet. 

Peyton, who towers over just about everyone, gapes at the chaos ensuing.

"We just brought out the "entertainment", and Troy lost it." Chad shakes his head, his brown eyes wide with astonishment.

"We should have known it was a bad idea, man," Zeke murmurs.

Chad sends his taller friend a look that couldn’t have, “you could have told me that, earlier”, etched more clearly in it.

"In Zeke’s defense," Peyton offers, finding his voice at last, "you could tell that Troy wasn’t very… _enthusiastic_ about the situation.” 

Sharpay glares daggers at Chad. Ryan has half a mind to slap the bushy-haired athlete, himself. Troy’s heart rate is only just now beginning to return to its normal rhythm.

"Look at how upset he is!" Taylor gestures to Troy. She takes a step into Chad, like a mother scolding an unruly child. 

"We were just trying to have fun," Chad says meekly.

"Well, way to go, Chad," Sharpay’s words drip with heavy sarcasm. Her face isn’t visible to Ryan, but he’s ninety-five percent certain that a sneer is curling her lips. "Look at what your idea of, " _fun_ ”, accomplished!” 

"Guys, it’s all right," Troy speaks up. He smooths his hair back into place. "Chad was just trying to get me to loosen up and have a good time."

Ryan lets out a sigh of relief at the appearance of the familiar gesture. But, _no_. “No,” he says firmly. “No, it’s _not_ okay. Troy, Chad owes you an apology, and so do I.”

Troy blinks in confusion.

Ryan sighs heavily. “I _never_ should have allowed them to take you out of the apartment, tonight, if that was what they were going to do.” 

Troy shakes his head. “Ryan, you couldn’t have…”

"Troy." 

Troy turns at the sound of his friend’s voice. 

"Evan- _Ryan_ is right. Look, I’m really sorry.” Chad shifts his weight uncomfortably under all of the accusatory stares being directed toward him. “I had no idea that you were gonna react like that.”

Troy’s muscles finally relax. “It’s cool, Chad. I-I just couldn’t do it.”

"Yeah. We got that." 

Zeke and Jason nod their affirmation to their co-captain, and ringleader’s, words. 

Taylor gives Chad a light, reprimanding smack on the biceps. “You should have known better, you lunkhead,” she mutters. 

Sharpay rolls her eyes in disgust, then crosses to Peyton, greeting him with a warm, approving smile. “At least I know that _you_ didn’t do anything wrong!” 

Peyton’s response is lost as Ryan’s thoughts swirl about his mind at a nauseating pace. Troy’s been there at Ryan’s side to administer comfort through all of Ryan’s panic attacks and freak outs. _Where was I when_ he _needed_ me _?_ Here _, sitting on my ass, doing_ nothing. He knows, though, that Troy wouldn’t want him to blame himself, or hold himself accountable for what happened, tonight. 

Kelsi and Martha exchange awkward glances. Kelsi then looks at Sharpay fawning over Peyton, and her face flushes, a frown tugging at her lips.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ryan spots movement. He looks down to see Troy wiping up the puddle of champagne on the floor with a crinkled paper towel. A loving smile tugs at his lips. 

——————-

Later that night, when it’s just the two of them, and Ryan is curled up against Troy’s warm, sculpted chest, enveloped in Troy’s equally warm and strong arms, his nausea has completely subsided. He’s known for years that Troy is man that he wants to marry. That Troy is the only one that he wants. The only man that he wants to spend his life with. 

He didn’t need Troy having a panic attack at the mere thought of a sexual encounter with someone else, to prove that Troy feels exactly the same. 

"Chad’s an inconsiderate asshole," Ryan expresses with a bitter sigh.

"Yeah…" Troy admits after a moment. "Yeah, I guess he is, huh?" His chest rises with an inhalation. "But, he’s still my brother, Ry. He’s the only one I’ve ever really had."

"I know," Ryan says softly. Asshole though he is, Chad and Troy have been through a lot, together, and even though Chad can be self-centered, he’s only doing what he feels is right. Ryan rationalizes that, in his heart of hearts, Chad doesn’t mean to be cruel. He probably isn’t even aware of how his actions hurt his best friend. 

Sort of like how a certain someone else that Ryan is very close to, used to be. Then, she learned her lesson a few times over until it finally stuck. 

"But, hey." Troy tilts his head down. His eyes glow with love as they take Ryan in. Love to match the love in the smile on his face. "I know that I’ve got _you_ to fix Chad’s mistakes.”

"Always," Ryan relays, feeling like his body is a dam about to burst from the swell of the love and joy overfilling it. He moves to nuzzle Troy’s nose with his own. For better or worse. In sickness and in health. "As long as long as we both shall live."  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**_Fight Me_ **

 

 

Troy Bolton would notice things about other people, sometimes. The way a woman swung her hips when she walked. The tight stretching of a man’s shirt across his chest. Occasionally, it would be the musculature of a man’s legs, or the sloping curves of a woman’s chest. 

He didn’t mean to stare, and he’d immediately deliver a mental slap to himself when he realized where his eyes had ventured. He just couldn’t help but to take notice of these certain features. 

Ryan Evans, Troy’s husband, was incredibly perceptive, and Troy knew that Ryan had to be aware of Troy _noticing_ these things. Even though Ryan never spoke up about it.

That was Ryan’s way of handling any issue that life sent crashing into him. He shut down, or rather, shut himself _in_ , and pretended that everything was all smiles and sunshine.

The Evans family wasn’t like the Bolton family, in the sense that they didn’t discuss their problems with each other. They slapped on their perfect smiles, and acted like the problem, whatever it might be, didn’t exist. This tactic didn’t originate from a lack of love. No, Troy knew that Ryan’s parents and his sister cared deeply for him, despite their odd ways of demonstrating it, and likewise, Ryan loved all of them. Rather, it seemed as though the Evans technique of maintaining a pristine appearance, regardless of the circumstances, was something that every member of the family line had been taught at an early age, and they, in turn passed that knowledge down to their kids. 

Yes, Troy had grown more than accustomed to reading Ryan. The manner in which the blond shifted his weight, or how he sat. Whether his back was straight and proud, or his legs were pulled in close to his body, a physical reflection of a mentally dwarfing emotional state. Ryan’s subtle facial quirks, if his eyes were bright and sparkling, or if they were darkened and misty, and if there was a just audible waver to his voice…

However, a large part of Troy’s subconscious recognized that Ryan’s method of bottling up the majority of his negative emotions was _unhealthy_ , for both their relationship, and for _Ryan_ , himself. 

Troy also knew that, despite the matching rings on their fingers, and the fact that they had been together for nearly five years, Ryan still found it incredibly difficult to believe that, out of the almost seven billion people milling about the surface of the planet, Troy had chosen  _him_. 

It was a feeling of obligation, an obligation to right all wrongs, that drove Troy to try to rectify both facets of the situation at once. 

He followed the usual tradition of bringing Ryan the most stunning bouquet of roses that the local florist had to offer, after curtain call. While Ryan was in the process of removing his stage makeup, Troy inquired, his stomach knotting, “Ryan?”

"Hm?"

"You-you know that I look at other people sometimes."

Ryan flinched. A brush, the one used to apply blush, fell to the floor with a loud clatter. Slowly, Ryan turned from the vanity to face Troy, revealing his widened blue eyes. After a moment of intensely searching Troy’s face, he nodded, almost imperceptibly.

Troy swallowed, and the sound seemed to resonate in the room. “It bothers you, doesn’t it?”

Ryan looked from his lap to Troy. Even beneath the layer of makeup, the color had visibly left his fair face. He gripped the arms of the chair so hard, his knuckles turned white, and murmured a very, _very_ faint, “…Yes.”

Troy’s heart missed a beat. This was some kind of progress. He just had to hope that he could handle this with the necessary care and precision. “Baby, why don’t you say something?” He took several paces forward, leaving just enough space between them. This was a confrontation, but the last thing that Troy wanted was to push Ryan until a fight broke out between them. He and Ryan _never_ fought each other.

Occasional mild disagreements over Ryan’s dietary habits, and gentle but firm refusals when one of them began belittling himself? Yes.

Stomach churning screaming matches where one party refused to listen to the other, that _couldn’t_ be resolved with tickling or hugging, and always ended in tears and heartbreak? No. _Never_. 

It went unspoken that Troy couldn’t _handle_ fighting with another one of his loved ones, and Ryan, who quietly understood Troy so completely in ways that were still surprising to Troy, would never put Troy through that. Because Ryan couldn’t bear to lose Troy, either.

"It’s… it’s really not that big a deal," Ryan replied, his light voice low. Troy detected the telling tremble in pitch.

"It _is_ , Ryan. It makes you think, for even a second, that there’s someone,  _anyone_ else who I’d rather be with than _you_. And, that’s _bullshit_.”

Ryan turned away, his jaw set firmly, and swallowed. His candied lips began quivering. The perfect porcelain mask had cracked. 

Troy drew in closer, his injured leg killing him with every step. Tears pricked at his own blue eyes. He didn’t want to make Ryan, of all people in the world, _cry_ , damn it. But, somethings had to be said. For both of their sakes.  ”There _isn’t_ , Ryan. If I wanted to leave you for someone else, I-I wouldn’t still be here. You  _know_ that.” 

"… I know." Ryan’s voice cracked, a sob threatening to break through.

His desire to envelope Ryan in a snug embrace and let the petite performer cry it out, just about overpowered Troy. He dropped down into a kneel in front of Ryan, his leg practically buckling. “Ry, babe, look at me.”

Ryan breathed heavily in a desperate attempt to keep himself together. He obeyed, his blue eyes moving to take in his husband. 

"Hey, it’s okay." Troy placed his hand over top of Ryan’s pale, clammy one. He stroked reassuringly over Ryan’s knuckles with his thumb. 

That gesture of comfort was a cue.

Tears spilled over, and began streaming down Ryan’s cheeks, causing his mascara to run. 

_Shit._  Unable to stand it, anymore. Troy drew Ryan into him. Ryan’s chest shuddered against Troy’s with the labor of trying to hold in sobs. 

"It’s okay." Troy repeated. Was it? Or, was it too early to know for sure? Well-groomed, polished fingernails dug into Troy’s backside as Ryan clenched Troy’s shoulder blades.

Troy let Ryan nuzzle into his neck, holding him tightly through every heart-wrenching muffled sob. Through every tear that dampened Troy’s plaid over shirt. 

Finally, Ryan’s breathing was steady and even. He leaned back, just enough to be able to stare into the brunette’s eyes. “I _love_ you, Troy.” 

"I love you, too, Ry," Troy choked out, "And I’m _so_ sorry…!  _You’re_ the one that I want to make love to every night, and wake up to in the morning, and start a family with, and just _be_ with for the rest of my life.” It was the truth. Troy had known that he wanted to spend his life with Ryan since the night they’d celebrated Ryan acing his audition for the show that made him a star. 

It wasn’t the traces of alcohol in Troy’s system impairing his judgement that had made him say that.

Troy retrieved a damp paper towel so Ryan could wash the mascara streaks, along with the rest of his makeup, off of his face. As always, he assisted Ryan with the removal of his costume, and Ryan aided Troy in taking off Troy’s over shirt, his t-shirt, his jeans, and his blue boxers.

Troy vowed to not let his eyes wander again, so they would never again have to argue about it.

Making Ryan cry once was _more_ than enough.

Then, they kissed each other, deeply, passionately, and cuddled together, and all that Troy could see, hear, smell, touch, and taste was Ryan, Ryan, _Ryan._ And, that was exactly how he wanted it to be. 

 

 

 


End file.
